Archive of Our Own

Buck loved the weekend. 

He enjoyed the week, too, of course; he loved teaching, and seeing his students’ faces light up when they got to learn more about the things that interested them was one of the best feelings in the world. 

But there were many things he just simply couldn’t do during the week, and that’s what made the weekends so special. 

At 10:00 AM on a weekday, Buck would have already been up for at least five hours; he’d be partway through teaching his second period—out of eight—of the day; and his coffee would likely be growing cold in a mug on his desk. 

At 10:00 AM on a Saturday, Buck could relax on one of the benches at the end of the pier, people-watching locals and tourists alike, and sipping from a to-go cup of coffee with a smiley face drawn on it in Sharpie. 

He took a selfie with the ocean behind him and had just sent it to Maddie when, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a young boy in a bright yellow shirt heading his way. He definitely wasn’t old enough to be one of Buck’s students—if he had to guess, he’d say between seven and eight years old—and walked a little unsteadily with the aid of two blue crutches. A pair of small glasses sat on his nose, a red strap wrapped around his head to hold them in place, and his eyes seemed angled in different directions. 

Buck looked around the kid, but he didn’t see anyone else distinctly accompanying him. He wondered if he was lost. 

“Hey, kid,” he called out, “do you need some help?” 

The boy stopped where he was. “My dad says I’m not supposed to talk to strangers,” he said, eyeing Buck warily. 

Buck smiled at him. “Your dad’s very smart; what if we introduce ourselves, and then we won’t be strangers?” He suggested. The boy seemed to think for a moment before nodding. 

“Okay,” he said, “but I’m not going anywhere with you.” 

Buck couldn’t help but laugh at the kid’s declaration. He put his hands up like he was surrendering. “That sounds good to me. Most people call me Buck; what’s your name?” 

The boy made a face. “Buck? That’s a silly name. I’m Christopher, though some people call me Chris sometimes.” 

Buck stuck out his hand, waiting patiently for Christopher to adjust the placement of his crutches so he could shake it.  

“So, Christopher, are you here with your dad? A friend? Is there a grown-up with you?” 

Christopher nodded, pointing toward the public restrooms. “Mhm, my neighbor, Stacy. She hangs out with me sometimes when Dad has to work. But she had to go to the bathroom, and I can’t go with her, so I asked if I could wait by the benches, and she said yes.” 

“I see,” Buck said. “Well, would you like to sit?” He patted the space beside him on the bench. 

Christopher looked at the spot contemplatively, then looked past the bench to the railing overlooking the ocean. 

“I wanna look at the water,” he said. 

Buck looked at the boy’s crutches for a moment, and the unbalanced way he was standing, but then he saw the determined look on his face. He set his coffee cup down on the ground, then straightened back up.

“I think I can help with that,” he said. “But you have to let me hold onto you. Otherwise, the wind might blow you away, and then Stacy will be looking for you allllll day, and she’ll be really scared.” 

Christopher nodded. “Okay,” he agreed. 

He took a few unsteady steps forward until he was close enough to let go of his crutches and hold onto Buck’s shoulders for stability. Buck moved the crutches to the side, leaning them up against the bench, before lifting Christopher onto it as gently as he could. 

The boy’s hands left Buck’s shoulders, grabbing onto the metal railing instead, and his body seemed to lean forward against the back of the bench automatically. Once Buck made sure Christopher had gotten into a good enough position to hold himself up, he moved one hand to grab the back of the boy’s shirt and let the other fall back to his side. 

They stayed like that for a few minutes: Christopher looking out at the Pacific, Buck continuing to watch the people—and now keeping an eye on the bathroom building—but never loosening his grip on Chris’s shirt. 

“Buck?” Christopher finally broke their silence. 

Buck looked up at him, squinting slightly against the sun. “Yeah, buddy?”

“Do you have a job?” Christopher asked, voice sincere and curious. Buck couldn’t help the slight laugh that escaped his mouth as he nodded. 

“Yeah, I teach science,” he answered. 

Christopher’s eyes seemed to light up. “I love science!” 

“Do you? Well, did you know that the deepest point on the entire Earth is in the Pacific Ocean?”

“Really?” 

“Yup. It’s called the Mariana Trench, and it's deeper than if you turned Mount Everest upside down and stuck it underwater.”

“Wow.” Christopher sounded fascinated; it was one of the best sounds Buck had ever heard.

“Do you ever think about what you want to do when you grow up?” He asked in return.

“Hmm...an astronaut or a pirate,” Christopher replied confidently. 

Buck felt his smile grow. “An astronaut or a pirate,” he repeated. “Very good choices.” 

“Oh, wait!” Christopher exclaimed like he’d forgotten something. “A firefighter.” 

Buck raised his eyebrows. “A firefighter?” 

Christopher nodded enthusiastically. “My dad’s a firefighter,” he proclaimed, looking proud. 

“He sounds pretty awesome,” Buck said. Christopher nodded in agreement before turning back to the water. 

Buck felt his phone buzz, opening it to see Maddie’s response to his picture. He was typing out a response when he heard dozens of footsteps hurrying closer—hurrying to the railing.

He looked up and saw people looking out at the ocean, confusion clear on all their faces. He stood up, turning around to see what was so interesting, and felt his heart stop for a moment. 

They were looking at the ocean floor—stretching for at least a hundred feet—completely exposed where there had just been water. 

“Where did all the water go?” Christopher asked softly. 

Buck’s eyes widened as he looked at the horizon; he spotted the wave at the exact same moment the sirens started blaring. 

Tsunami. 

Buck turned to Christopher urgently. “Chris, I know you said you weren’t going to go anywhere with me, but we really need to get off the pier right now.”

Christopher started to nod in understanding, and Buck didn’t waste any more time, picking the boy up and throwing him over his shoulder—an ironically timed fireman’s carry—and running as fast as he could. 

“Everybody get off the pier! Go!” He shouted as he ran, people around him dropping whatever they were carrying and sprinting toward land. 

He could feel the ground rumbling beneath him, growing stronger as the wave got closer. 

There was no way he was going to make it, was his first thought. 

His second was that he needed to protect Christopher. 

He adjusted course for one of the game booths, quickly leaning inside and tucking Chris underneath the counter. 

Buck looked back just as the wave hit the pier, wood splintering immediately on impact, tearing through everything in its path. He turned and hopped into the game booth. 

And then the water hit him. 

It sent him spinning, ripping him away from the booth—from Christopher—and careening him into whatever debris swirled around him. 

He thrashed around, fighting panic as he tried to find which way was up. 

Something sliced across his face and he barely managed to stop himself before he could gasp in pain and inhale water. 

His hands were half-reaching for something to hold onto, and half-trying to paddle in any way that resembled viable swimming. 

He needed to find the surface. 

He felt himself moving in what he thought was up, and he moved his arms and legs harder until his head finally broke the surface and his lungs finally expanded painfully, sucking in air.

The water raged around him, still trying to pull him back under, and he frantically looked for something to grab. Less than two feet above him, he spotted a set of string lights, bulbs dim—some broken—but the cord intact and taut, stretching across the street. 

He grabbed it and held on tight. 

“Chris– Christopher,” his mouth seemed to mutter before his brain fully caught up. 

Where was Christopher?

“Christopher!” He tried shouting over the sound of the water, spinning around in place, searching desperately for any signs of the boy he’d been trying to protect. “Christopher?! CHRISTOPHER!”

“Buck!” 

A young voice, barely audible over the chaos, but there. Alive. 

“Buck, help!” The cry came again, and this time, Buck’s head whipped around toward the direction it came from.

In front of him, there was nothing as far as he could see except rapidly-moving water, carrying away people and parts of the city, knocking over almost everything except the sturdiest poles, trees, and buildings. 

A flash of yellow stuck out against what looked like an electrical pole, and Buck could’ve cried in relief. 

Christopher clung tightly to the post, wet and terrified, but not visibly injured. 

“Just stay there! Stay there, Christopher!” Buck shouted before letting go of the lights. Immediately, the current caught him again, but this time, it was taking him where he needed to go. 

But it was too unpredictable. 

Too fast, and too wild. 

Buck reached for Christopher as he approached. “Christopher, grab my hand. Grab my hand!”

To his credit, the boy tried, unwrapping one arm from around the pole, sticking it out as far as he could, but it was no use; their fingertips brushed for just a second before the water pulled him away. 

“Buck!” Christopher called after him. 

“Stay there!” Buck shouted back at him, “Don’t let go, just stay there!”

He angled himself toward a scratched-up boogie board caught by a pile of debris and slid partially onto it, stopping the water from taking him any further. 

“I can’t hold on!” Christopher cried. Buck could see his hands starting to slip from the wooden pole; he needed to figure out a plan. 

Christopher called his name again, seconds before his hands fully lost their grip, and he fell back into the water.

As Christopher came closer, Buck pushed off the board, throwing himself back into the rapids, and swimming toward the boy with as much speed as he could gain. 

The second his arms wrapped around Christopher, Buck kicked toward the surface, gasping for breath for the second time. He hoisted Christopher higher on his hip, one arm wrapped around his back while the other cradled the back of his head, making sure he stayed as far out of the water as possible. 

“I’ve got you,” he breathed, “I’ve got you.”

With Christopher’s arms wrapped tightly around his neck, Buck used one arm to paddle in a messy attempt to try to steer them toward the side of the road, where he’d spotted a bright red ladder truck sticking out of the water—a perfect island.

Buck angled himself around Christopher as the current slammed them against the side of the truck, knocking the wind out of him but giving him the chance to grab the side. 

He clung there for a second, panting, before he spotted a large pile of debris heading straight toward them. Quickly, he readjusted Christopher, getting his hands underneath the boy’s back and legs and practically tossing him on top of the truck. 

He just hoped he hadn’t hurt him. 

The debris was moments away from hitting him, and Buck grabbed the truck's windowsill and pushed himself under the water, keeping his eyes open to watch the pile pass over him. 

As soon as it was gone, he used the windowsill again, this time to pull himself back to the surface, then fully onto the truck, ending up sprawled on his stomach beside Christopher. 

He pushed himself into a sitting-up position and immediately inspected Christopher for any signs of injury.

“Buck, you’re hurt,” Christopher pointed a shaky finger toward his face. When Buck reached up to touch the side of his cheek, his fingers came away red. 

He thought he’d been feeling water running down his face. 

Right. Something had cut him during the wave’s initial impact. 

He tried to smile at Chris, the action pulling at the injury his brain had been forced to acknowledge. 

“I’m fine, buddy, don’t worry about me. It looks worse than it is.”

Christopher frowned. “My dad says if you're ever bleeding, you’ve gotta put something really tight on it to keep the blood inside,” he said. 

Buck’s smile widened. “Once again, your dad is very smart. How about I–“ he wriggled out of his over-shirt, crumpling it up and pressing it to his face, hissing slightly at the way it stung, “–hold this here for a bit to try and help the bleeding?” 

Christopher seemed to consider it before giving a hesitant nod. 

“Now, are you okay?” Buck questioned. 

Christopher smiled, a bright, genuine expression. “Yup! I took surfing lessons.”

Buck couldn’t help but laugh. He’d only known this kid for a few hours, and he was pretty sure he’d already do anything for him. 

They played I-spy for some time after that, Buck trying to keep Christopher busy, when a woman’s shout echoed through the air. 

Buck’s head whipped up, immediately looking for the source of the scream, when Christopher pointed.

“Over there!” He exclaimed. 

Sure enough, in the distance, a middle-aged woman was struggling to stay afloat in the chaotic water. She yelled for help again. 

Buck stood at the side of the truck, looking back and forth between the woman and Christopher. He needed to make sure Christopher stayed safe. 

But he couldn’t just ignore someone who needed help. 

“Ma’am! Ma’am, can you hear me?” He shouted across the water.

The woman looked toward the source of his voice immediately; Buck took that as a yes. 

“Stay there, okay?” He shouted. “I’m gonna come over there and get you; just stay there!”

He looked around the truck for something to keep the water from carrying him away the second he got back in, and his eyes landed on the rolled-up hose. 

Holding the hose over his shoulder, Buck turned back to Christopher. 

“Hey, Chris, I need you to stay here, okay? I’ll be right back; I’m just gonna go help her; just don’t move.”

Cristopher nodded seriously, and Buck jumped back in the water. 

Over the next few hours, Buck alternated between helping to pull passing survivors to safety and sitting with Christopher, sharing random scientific facts to keep him entertained.

He’d tied the hose to a pole on the other side of the street, creating a lifeline for people in the water to grab onto as they were swept by. From there, they could pull themselves along the hose and to the truck, where Buck and a few other survivors would help lift them. 

The first woman he’d helped rescue—whose name, he learned, was Rosa—turned out to be an off-duty nurse and began checking people for injuries and treating whatever she could. 

Things had been going as well as they could be when suddenly the ground shook, jostling the firetruck and everyone on board. 

Before they could prepare, the truck lurched as torrents of water came rushing back the way it had come. 

“The water’s receding,” Buck yelled, “everyone hang on!”

Stumbling forward, he grabbed a young man before he could roll off the truck, pulling him back up. Another woman started to slide past, and Buck grabbed her shirt, holding her in place—though he grimaced as he felt the stitches in the seam pop. 

Just as he was making sure the woman was alright, the truck rocked again, the water dragging a large pile of debris right against it, and Buck heard a splash from behind him. 

He spun around, only to find an empty spot where Christopher had just been. 

“Christopher?” He frantically looked around the truck for any signs that the boy had just moved, maybe rolled to one side, or hidden behind someone

But there was nothing. 

“Christopher?!” He looked out as the water dragged everything back toward the ocean. 

He couldn’t lose that kid. 

Buck dove. 

The water was immediately disorienting—dark and cluttered, and strong. After a few feet, Buck’s fingers brushed blindly against something that felt like fabric, and he grabbed on, praying that it was Christopher and not some random piece of debris. He felt the current yanking on whatever the fabric was weighted by, and pulled against it, drawing the fabric closer to him until– 

There! A hand! 

A small hand, connected to a small body, still thrashing about under the water, looking for the way up and out of the disorienting swill. 

Buck readjusted his grip—wrapping his arm around what he was now sure was a child’s torso—and exhaled some of the breath he’d been holding. He followed the air bubbles to the surface. 

Buck breached the water with a gasp; he had no time to catch his breath, though, if he wanted to get Christopher—now held tightly in his arms, heaving and coughing up seawater—back to the relative safety of the firetruck. 

To get back there, Buck knew he’d have to swim against the current.

“Hey, Chris, hang on, Buddy, I’m gonna try to get us back to the truck, alright? Just hold on tight.”

He felt Christopher nod against his shoulder and tighten his grip, so he turned and swam. 

The water was ruthless, but Buck had a singular goal in mind. If Christopher were any of his students, if Christopher were his kid, he’d want someone to do everything they could to save him. 

And that’s what he was going to do. 

Buck could see some of the other survivors leaning out over the edge of the truck, hands outstretched as they watched Buck kick against the current. 

With one last stretch, Buck grabbed onto the side of the truck with one hand to steady himself. He kicked around under the water until he felt the side lip of the firetruck. He hooked his foot under it and carefully let go; the water tugged harshly at the anchor point he’d created, but he was pretty sure he’d bought himself at least a minute to use both his hands. 

On top of the truck, Rosa leaned over the side, her hands outstretched. Buck could see a few other survivors holding her steady, and standing by as extra hands. 

He looked over his shoulder slightly at Christopher. “Alright, Superman, you see Miss Rosa right there? I need you to reach up and grab her hands; she’s gonna pull you up, okay?”

“What about you?” Christopher objected. 

“I’ll be right behind you!” Buck reassured him. “I’m just gonna help push you up from down here, first.”

Christopher frowned, but nodded. “Okay.”

“Ready? I’m gonna lift you onto my shoulders, reach up as far as you can, alright? Reach reach reach.”

As he used both hands to help maneuver Chris higher, Buck thanked his past self for making the gym a priority—whether before or after school; his muscles burned, worn out by the day they’d had, but he pushed past it, focusing solely on getting Christopher back out of the water. He could hear Rosa and some of the other survivors shouting encouragement from above them, and felt as Chris’s weight slowly lifted upwards. 

Leaning back a bit in the water, relying on his still-secured foot to keep him in place, Buck watched as Christopher’s shoes disappeared over the top of the firetruck. He laughed breathlessly in relief and grabbed tightly onto the side of the truck. 

One of the men who’d helped pull Chris up reappeared over the side of the truck, looking down at Buck with a disbelieving grin. 

“Man, what’re you doing down there?”  

Buck couldn’t help but smile back. “Beats me. Wanna give me a hand?” He reached up with one hand and slid his foot out from under the truck before lifting it a bit and kicking around beneath the water again until he eventually seemed to find a spot to wedge it in. In this new position, he’d be able to push upward with his leg—like climbing a ladder—to get him closer to the top of the firetruck.

The man reached out with both hands, and—like with Rosa before—Buck could see a few people helping to anchor him, as well as a few other pairs of hands ready to grab on once Buck got close enough. 

Their hands had to have been inches apart when suddenly a chunk of the debris pile that had knocked into the truck broke off, and something heavy slammed into Buck’s side, knocking his leg sideways and wrenching his grip from the truck. The current instantly grabbed hold of his body again, dragging him away from the truck before he jerked to a halt, his foot—the one he’d been using to push himself up the truck—remaining wedged where he’d put it. 

The suddenness of the stop, and the change in the angle of his leg—decidedly not the same one his foot was at—sent a shooting pain immediately through Buck’s ankle, and he couldn’t help the shout of pain and surprise that came out of his mouth. 

The people on the truck looked terrified as they watched him struggle against the receding water while being onto his back—like the current and the firetruck were playing tug-of-war, and he was the rope. Buck tried to move his arms in the treading water motion to keep his head and neck above the water; he hoped Christopher couldn’t see this. 

“Buck!”

No such luck. 

He was trying to use the leg that was stuck to reel himself back in, bending it at the knee and ignoring the way his ankle protested. 

He took a breath and ducked under the water to avoid being hit by what looked like pieces of a fishing boat—if the broken-but-still-mounted fishing rod was anything to go off—but as it passed over his head, he felt something thin fold against his side. 

He realized it was fishing wire just in time for it to yank him so suddenly that he felt a snap in his stuck ankle as it slid free; water filled his mouth as he screamed and his head dipped below the water. 

He came up for air, coughing, as he was being pulled along by the tangled fishing wire, and heard the people on the firetruck calling out for him. He had to figure out what to do before the receding water took him out to sea. 

Across the street, a few feet away from him and several more from the truck, he saw an overturned Mail Drop box that had gotten stuck between a building facade and a mangled umbrella, creating a kind of wall that pieces of debris were getting caught on.

Without the use of either of his legs, all Buck could do was try to paddle enough to angle himself for the small barrier, and hope the current did the rest. 

For what might’ve been the first, or hundredth time that day, luck was on his side, and he ran right into the spot he was aiming for. The collision elicited a soft “oof,” his whole body sore and definitely bruised, and the fishing wire drew taut under the water as the boat tried to continue on without him.

He waved at the people on the firetruck, wanting them to know he was okay—minus the throbbing pain in his ankle—then set out trying to figure out how to detangle himself from the line; the angle was awkward, Buck couldn’t see clearly beneath the water, and the wire had twisted and knotted itself. 

Suddenly, the shouting from the truck grew more frantic, and Buck looked up to see people pointing in the direction the water was coming from. 

His gaze followed their gestures until it landed on a car. 

A car that was being swept along by the water, body scratched, dented, and damaged. 

A car that was heading straight for him, fast. 

Buck looked down at where the fishing line held him in place, then back at the firetruck. Even from a distance, he could see Christopher watching from the edge, Rosa’s hands on his shoulders to keep him steady. He smiled at the boy, knowing he couldn’t see his face, then locked eyes with Rosa, hoping she could. 

Hoping that she could see what he was asking. 

Keep him safe; don’t let him see. 

Then the car was close enough that he could hear the groaning of metal. 

Then there was nothing. 

When Rosa saw the look on Buck’s face, she reacted without thought—probably the only reason she was able to react in time—pulling Christopher tightly against her chest, one hand on the back of his head, gently keeping it pressed into her shirt. 

She couldn’t help the way she flinched seconds before the car hit—her whole body tensing around Christopher and her eyes squeezing shut to shield her from the moment of impact. 

When she opened them, though, there was the car: smashed against an overturned Mail Drop box and a large, crumpled umbrella. 

Right where Buck had been. 

She forced herself to keep looking at the crumpled vehicle, and felt her stomach plummet when she saw a limp hand draped over the hood, water dripping from the fingers; the only sign of the man who’d been trying to free himself when the ocean decided it wanted to keep him. 

The entire truck roof was silent, stunned at how fast it had happened. They’d all interacted with Buck throughout the day—when he pulled them up from the water, when he checked to make sure Rosa had looked at them, even in the moments he sat and made conversation, trying to entertain the small boy, Cristopher, tucked into his side. They’d all managed to forget the nature of natural disasters; people were there one second and gone the next. 

At one point while Buck was trying to help a young woman reach the truck, Rosa had asked if Buck was his dad. The boy had shaken his head, telling her that they’d only met that morning at the pier, but Buck had saved him when the first wave hit. 

Knowing that the two had only known each other for less than a day made Chris’s cries even more heartbreaking, as he pulled weakly against Rosa’s hold, Buck’s name muffled by her shirt. 

Around her, the other survivors seemed to share the same quiet devastation that Rosa felt. 

She just rubbed Christopher’s back gently. 

No one spoke much after that; everyone just watched the water as it lowered bit by bit, the current slowing down to nothing more than the flow of a small creek. 

As the sun began to dip lower in the sky and more of the concrete became visible, their little group decided it was time to set out on foot to try to find emergency services so they could be checked over—Rosa’s orders—and, hopefully, sent home to their loved ones. 

Slowly, everyone dismounted the firetruck that had been their haven for the past few hours. Rosa carefully climbed down first before Mason, one of the men who’d helped her pull Christopher up after he’d fallen back into the water, slowly lowered the boy into her arms. 

Someone had wrapped him in their jacket earlier, the whole thing tucked around him like a blanket. He was clearly exhausted, but he still grabbed her shirt weakly.

“Wait, we need to get Buck first.”

Rosa didn’t think her heart could break any further. A few of the survivors were looking over, eyes full of pity. She pulled Christopher away from her chest, just enough to be able to look him in the eyes.

“I’m sorry, buddy, but we can’t do that,” she tried to be as gentle as possible. 

“Why not?” Christopher asked with a sniffle. 

Rosa opened her mouth, then closed it. Then opened it again. She didn’t know what to say. As if sensing her struggle, Mason stepped forward, laying a careful hand on Christopher’s shoulder to get his attention.

“Because it’s not safe, and Buck would want you to be safe—to get back to your dad.” 

At the mention of his dad, Christopher seemed to light up. “My dad! He can help; he’s a firefighter. He’ll be able to get Buck.” He turned back to Rosa, energy temporarily renewed, “We have to find my dad.”

Eddie was having a terrible day.

Granted, the whole city was having a terrible day. 

Within seconds of everyone’s phone pinging with the tsunami alert, the first bell rang, and they hadn't been back to the station since. 

Now, the sun was fully down, and there still seemed to be no end in sight. Eddie frowned at his phone as he wove through the crowded VA hospital and makeshift triage center; Stacy was watching Christopher today and had promised him they’d go on a “field trip,” instead of staying inside all day, but she hadn’t said where. 

G-d, he hoped it was a movie or something. Anything inland and indoors. 

He slid his phone back into his pocket—no messages. 

He came up beside Lena Bosko from the 136, who stood at the edge of the triage tent like she was waiting for something. 

“What’ve we got?” He asked. 

Lena’s gaze flitted to him, acknowledging his presence, then returned to the road. 

“Someone radioed in. A group of survivors headed our way, should be here any second. Apparently they all waited out the wave on top of a firetruck.” 

Eddie raised his eyebrows, both surprised and impressed. He opened his mouth to respond when Lena pointed. “There they are.”

Eddie looked at where she was pointing and felt his jaw drop slightly at the large group of people trudging toward them. All of them were wet and dirty; some walked with the support of someone else, some with various visible injuries, and some that seemed relatively unharmed. At the front of the group was a middle-aged woman, with dark hair pulled into a messy ponytail, carrying what looked to be a child wrapped in a red hoodie. 

He and Lena hurried forward to meet them when something made Eddie freeze. 

The child’s shoes. 

He knew those shoes. But that was impossible because Christopher was with Stacy, and they wouldn’t have been anywhere near this nightmare. But those shoes. Those were Christopher’s shoes. The same ones he’d helped tie earlier this morning. 

“Christopher?” The name came out in a whisper, barely audible. 

Lena looked over at him. “Diaz, you good?” She asked, eyebrows furrowed. 

Eddie didn’t respond—couldn’t respond. Not until he knew–

“Christopher?!” This time he shouted it, taking one step forward, then another. 

“Dad!” The child squirmed in the woman’s arms, and Eddie rushed to take him from her. 

He knelt to the ground, arms tight around his son, pushing the hood away from his face, checking him frantically for injuries and finding none. His heart felt like it was racing, working overdrive to recover from a tragedy he hadn’t even been aware was a possibility. 

“What happened, buddy? What are you doing here? Where’s Stacy?” He asked, scanning the group for Christopher’s babysitter but not finding her.

“I asked her if we could go play games by the ocean,” Christopher’s voice suddenly sounded small. “She went to the bathroom, and I was waiting on one of the benches by the railing, and all the water disappeared.”

Eddie felt sick to his stomach. He’d already seen what was left of the pier, and now he was learning that his son had been right there, at the very edge of it… alone. 

Wait. 

Eddie looked among the group again, some of whom were now being treated by volunteers and EMTs, and realized Christopher’s crutches were nowhere in sight. 

How the hell was he alive?

“Christopher, how did you get off the pier?”

“Buck carried me because he could run, and I couldn’t,” he answered. “But he asked permission before picking me up,” he added, deeming the information important. 

Before Eddie could ask who this ‘Buck’ was, Christopher straightened up, eyes suddenly going wide. “Dad, you have to help him; you have to help Buck. Mr Mason said it wasn’t safe for us, but you help people all the time, and he needs help!” He gestured to a young man standing beside the woman who’d been carrying Christopher. 

Eddie assumed that was ‘Mr Mason’. He looked at him questioningly. 

“There was a guy with Christopher, earlier today—youngish guy, probably late 20s, maybe—introduced himself as Buck. He and your son had found a firetruck to sit on top of, and Buck was helping pull people out of the water as they passed.” He gestured to their whole group. “Saved all of us.”

Lena let out a low whistle beside Eddie, and he couldn’t help but agree with the sentiment. One guy helped save this whole group. 

And they were speaking about him in the past tense.  

“What happened to him?” Eddie pulled Christopher into a hug and addressed Mason over his shoulder. 

“When the water receded, it destabilized the truck—knocked a lot of us off balance. Buck was up, helping catch people, when a patch of debris hit us, and made the whole thing even more unstable.” He paused, looking at Christopher for a moment. “Christopher fell in.” Eddie felt his breathing hitch, but Mason continued. “Buck barely waited a second; he just jumped right in after him. He managed to catch up with him and get him back above the water. Then he swam him back to the truck.”

That would’ve been against the current, Eddie’s brain noted. 

“Buck made Christopher go first—helped push him back up and onto the truck. I was supposed to pull him up after.” Mason’s voice grew thicker, raspier; it sounded like guilt. “More debris came loose, and it hit him. He lost his grip on the truck, but his ankle was stuck. But something else hit him—part of a boat, I think—and it dislodged his ankle. I definitely hurt it in some way, though, because he kinda screamed before he went under.” 

Everyone in the group was quiet, listening to Mason’s recounting; this was something they’d all seen, something they’d all been shaken by. Eddie couldn’t help but hope that Christopher might’ve been the only one who didn’t see.  

“Did he resurface after that?” Lena asked. 

Mason nodded. “Yeah– yeah, he did. He somehow managed to get himself stuck on, I don’t know, it looked like one of those blue mailbox things, but it seemed like he might’ve been caught on something from the boat, because he was trying to untangle something under the water.” He paused, swallowing and looking toward the ground. His voice got softer. “Then there was the car… It just– he couldn’t get out of the way in time.”

Eddie looked down at his son, still in his arms. 

As if she could read his thoughts, the woman who’d been carrying Christopher spoke up quietly. “I made sure he wasn’t watching.”

“You have to go back for him, Dad,” Christopher pulled away from Eddie enough to look him in the eye. “He’s been all alone, and he’s hurt. He had a cut on his face; it was bleeding.”

Eddie chewed on his lip; he wanted nothing more than to get Christopher home—to get him into clean, dry clothes, and wrap him in blankets. But Christopher was looking at him with pleading eyes as he tried to convince Eddie to go back out into the destruction for a man Eddie knew was dead.

He heard footsteps behind him and looked over his shoulder to see the other 118 members heading toward the large group, likely to find out why they hadn’t dispersed or been sent for medical attention. 

Eddie fully scooped Christopher into his arms and stood, turning to face his team. 

“Eddie,” Bobby looked from Eddie to Christopher, concern written clearly on his face. “Is everything okay?”

Eddie nodded, suddenly aware of the tears that had gathered in his eyes. He rubbed Christopher’s back, wishing he could bring him even closer. 

“Daaad,” Chris borderline whined. “Please, you have to go back for Buck. He never left me behind; I can’t leave him behind.” 

Eddie looked to Bobby, who raised his eyebrows in a silent question. 

“All these people,” he nodded to the survivors behind him, “were saved by one guy, apparently. He saved Christopher, too, when the wave hit. He didn’t make it here with them, and Chris wants us to go back for him.” He explained softly. 

“Rescue or recovery?” Bobby asked, eyeing Christopher. 

Eddie sighed, “Recovery.”

Before Bobby could respond, the woman who’d been carrying Christopher interjected.

“I can take you to him,” she offered. “I know where he is. So you wouldn’t be searching aimlessly.”

Bobby seemed to consider her offer, then looked at the rest of the 118.

“You guys have already had a long day, and going out again could keep you away from home for hours…” 

Eddie shook his head almost instantly. “He saved my son; this is the least I can do.”

Bobby nodded at him before looking at the others. Each of them looked at the group of survivors standing in front of them, at Eddie, and at Christopher bundled in his arms, then nodded in agreement. 

“Alright,” Bobby said. “Let’s go get this kid. Hen–” She stepped forward, reaching for Christopher.

“I can stay back with him and make sure he gets checked out,” she told Eddie, and he nodded in thanks.

The woman who’d volunteered her help walked over to him, looking tired and a bit worried. 

“I don’t know how hard it’ll be to get to him,” she confessed. “I just– I couldn’t bring myself to look before we left.”

Eddie nodded in understanding. “That’s alright,” he reassured. “You don’t have to look this time either. You just have to get us there.” 

“That’s the truck,” the woman, who’d introduced herself as Rosa, said, pointing to the tilted fire truck just up the street. Across the front, the numbers 136 were still visible—Lena’s truck. Oddly, the engine’s hose stretched across the length of the street, secured to a pole, like a yellow tightrope. 

Or a lifeline.

Buck must’ve rigged it to help catch people as they floated past. 

Who was this guy?

“And that’s the car.” Rosa pointed to a silver car on the opposite side of the road from the truck, slightly closer to them.  

Eddie could tell it was bad, even from a good ten feet away.

The car was smashed into the brick storefront, its body covered in scratches, dents, and palm leaves. If Rosa hadn’t led them directly to it, he was sure rescue and recovery teams would’ve passed by without a second glance. 

He approached from the side, stepping over and around scattered pieces of debris. He stumbled as his foot caught on a piece of fishing line that ran from a chunk of wreckage to the front of the car. 

Mason had said he thought Buck had gotten caught on something; Eddie wondered if this was it. 

He rounded the car, holding out a hand behind him as Rosa followed. “You don’t have to,” he told her. 

She took a deep breath, shaking her head. “He did so much to help us; the least I can do is help with this.” 

Eddie hesitated, but nodded and continued forward. 

They rounded the side of the car, and just past the windshield, Eddie saw him—Buck.

The man was slumped over the hood, arms almost spread-eagled on either side of him, legs hidden from view by the car pinning him against the wall.

His face was turned toward them: mid-late twenties, just like Mason had guessed, with short, dirty-blond curls crusted with seawater, and two wine-stain splotches above and below his right eyebrow—birthmarks, not bruises. His skin was sunburnt, scratched and dirty, and a long gash ran from under one eye to the middle of the opposite cheek. 

Eddie couldn’t help but look at pale lips and imagine them smiling at Chris, even as water raged around them—couldn’t help but look at closed eyes and wonder what color they were. 

This man was the only reason his son was still alive. 

He could hear Rosa sniffling behind him, and stepped to the side to let her have a moment before Chimney, Ravi, and Bobby caught up with them. 

She reached over the hood of the car, a hand gently settling over the back of Buck’s hand, still for a moment before her careful fingers curled around his lax ones. She bowed her head. 

“Thank you,” she murmured.

There was silence as she grieved the young stranger who’d risked his life for hers after he’d only just reached safety himself. 

And then she jumped, letting out a sound that was half-gasp, half-scream.

Eddie rushed forward. “Rosa? What happened?” 

She looked up at him, teary eyes wide and shocked; she was still holding Buck’s hand, and she looked back down at it. 

“He moved,” she stuttered. “His finger, it moved.” Eddie looked at her sympathetically; he knew the feeling of denial whenever someone saw the body of someone they cared about—it’s how he’d felt when Shannon died. He understood wanting to look for a miracle, for any signs that somehow, something impossible had been achieved. But looking at the man in front of him, he couldn’t be alive. 

“Rosa…” Eddie tried to be tactful, as with any distraught patient at a scene, but he never made it to the next word because, in that moment, Buck did the impossible: he moved. 

Eddie watched as his fingers curled ever so slightly, his shoulders tensed, and a hitched, sputtering sound escaped his lips before dissolving into weak coughs. His whole face seemed to scrunch up as his eyes squeezed tighter, then fluttered open halfway, revealing a glimpse at blue eyes that must’ve been brilliant when not clouded by pain and drowsiness. 

“Holy shit,” Eddie couldn’t help the words that came out of his mouth. Beside him, Rosa covered her own with her free hand. 

As Buck seemed to recognize Rosa’s grip around his hand, his fingers curled more, wrapping around hers as he attempted to lift his head toward them. 

“Wha–” his voice was raspy and confused. His eyes seemed to move without his control, not catching on anything specific until they eventually managed to reach Rosa. “R’sa?”

Before she could respond, something seemed to click in his brain, and he suddenly began trying to look around frantically, eyes opening wider but not focusing any more than they had been.

“Rosa– Where’s…Chris– where’s Chris’pher?”

His words were slurred but urgent, and Eddie felt his chest tighten. 

Injured, trapped, and barely conscious, and one of the first words out of this man’s mouth was his son’s name.

Rosa kept her hold on Buck’s hand, but used her other one to cradle his cheek, carefully avoiding the long cut. She crouched down to be at eye level with him so he didn’t have to try to lift himself up. 

“Hey, hey Buck, it’s okay. Christopher is okay; he’s safe. He’s not here, but he’s somewhere safe.” 

It seemed to take him a moment to understand what she was saying, but once he did, he seemed to visibly relax, letting his head drop back down onto the hood. Rosa continued to talk to him softly, trying to keep him awake and calm. 

Eddie stared at the two of them before calling over his shoulder. “Hey, Cap? Guys?” He didn’t bother trying to cover the disbelief in his voice. “I think this recovery just turned into a rescue…he’s alive.”

Chimney appeared next to him almost immediately. “He’s alive? How alive are we talking here? Is he conscious?” 

Eddie nodded, pointing to where Buck was smiling at something Rosa said. His eyes had started to droop a bit in comparison to when he’d been asking for Christopher, but miraculously, they seemed slightly clearer than before, though still dazed and tired. 

Bobby stopped on Eddie’s other side, reaching up for his radio. 

“Dispatch, this is Captain Nash from the 118 requesting an RA unit to our current location. We have a survivor here who’s pinned by some debris, and he’s going to need medical attention immediately.” 

There was a pause before a woman’s voice answered. “Captain Nash, this is dispatch. I don’t know if we have any RA units available, but we can figure out some other way to get to you.”

“I don’t care what you send, as long as it can get here and to a hospital quickly,” Bobby replied.

“Copy that, I’ll see what I can do,” the woman responded. 

Bobby let go of his radio. “Ravi, you and I are going to try and figure out the best way to get this car off of him. Edde, Chim, you guys need to figure out how to keep him stable when we do get the car off. The last thing we want is for alleviating the pressure to cause him to bleed out, internally or externally.” 

Everyone nodded, and quickly began to work. 

Rosa gave Buck’s hand a quick pat before stepping away to give Eddie space to work, while Chim went around to the other side of the car to start taking Buck’s vitals. Eddie knelt beside the car, where Rosa had just been, bringing him face-to-face with the man who’d saved his son. 

Buck studied him with half-lidded eyes, chapped lips pulling up at the corners in a just-barely-there smile. 

“‘Nd who migh’you be?” he asked. 

Eddie returned the smile. “My name is Eddie. My team and I are gonna get you out of here, okay?” 

Buck hummed, “Tha’d be really great.” 

Eddie laughed. “Just hold on tight, okay?”

Buck tapped the hood of the car with his fingers. “Think th’ car migh’be the one hold’ng onto me, here,” he replied. 

Eddie looked at him incredulously. “Oh, so you got jokes, do you? Even after a day like today?” 

Buck coughed, face pinching for a moment. “This? Pff, jus’a noth’r Thursday,” he muttered. 

“It’s Saturday, Buck,” Eddie corrected. Buck waved a hand weakly before letting it drop back beside his head. 

“Knew th’t.” 

“Right, right. Okay, Buck, can you tell me what hurts right now?” Eddie felt bad for the abrupt change, but he knew he needed to ask. Buck coughed weakly. 

“M’whole body…kinda hur’s right now? I think?... Well,” he paused, frowning, “My ‘nkle should hurt. M’pretty sure i’ss broken.” 

Eddie’s brow furrowed. “You think it’s broken, but it doesn’t hurt?” he clarified. Across from him, Chimney looked up, the same expression of concern on his face.

“Mmmyeah,” Buck said with a slight nod against the car. “‘v broke bones b’fore s I know wha’ feel s’like. Felt m’nkle break, but’doesn’t hur’ a’more.” 

Eddie’s stomach dropped, and he looked over at Chimney, wondering if he was thinking the same thing Eddie was. 

“Hey, Buck. Would you say your legs hurt right now?” Eddie asked. 

Buck’s eyes wandered away from Eddie’s face as he seemed to be trying to determine the answer to his question.

The fact that he didn’t know the answer off the top of his head was concerning enough. 

Buck blinked a few times, then managed to drag his gaze back to Eddie. “No. Doesn’ hurt. Be hones’, I don’ really feel them a’all.” He paused, frowning. “‘M pretty sure tha’s a bad thing, isn’t it?” His voice had softened, more like he was talking to himself than to Eddie. 

Eddie stood up slightly in order to see over the car, looking for Bobby and Ravi. He found them, eyebrows furrowed as he saw them walking away from him and Chimney, but it only took a second to realize what they were doing: they were going to check the 136’s truck for anything they could use to move the car. 

He crouched back down and felt his heart skip a beat at the sight of Buck’s closed eyes. He took a breath, and putting his hand on Buck’s arm, squeezing gently. With a light groan, Buck’s eyes pulled themselves open again, this time his gaze almost immediately moving to Eddie’s face.

“Chris’pher?”

Eddie tried for a smile, squeezing Buck’s arm again. “Christopher is okay; you saved him, Buck. Now you’ve just gotta hang in there, alright? We’re gonna get you out. Just hold on.”

I don’t want to have to tell my kid you died. 

I want to say thank you when you’ll remember it.